The rhythm of the early summer rain outside the window, the years that hit the title page in a hurry, the rambling thoughts, the silence of time is like a memory that can't be picked up for a long time, and the sadness of the disturbing song of rain seems to have just begun, and time remains the same. The past years silently spurred the lost soul, the gap between fingers, a casual look back, and followed the cycle of that time.
Perhaps a person will be addicted for a long time, habitually watching the reflection in the water, listening to elegant music, drinking lonely sadness, and letting the loneliness of the night soak up the cold of dreams. Standing in the dim light before the passage of time, doing nothing, the world of mortals is ferrying, youth is no longer a perfect book, colors are slowly fading, and no one can tell the beauty of the world. Perhaps because I am used to Enron, a song slides repeatedly in my heart and bounces on the screen of wheatgrass. Those fleeting years that are in full bloom, those that have not left traces of life only meet for the first time. I suddenly woke up from a dream in a corner. After watching it for a long time, you will feel hazy and unconsciously flow. If I wait for a long time, I will feel biting sadness.
May be accustomed to the feeling of loneliness, inadvertently reached out and read the text for a long time. The pain points in my memory are just like those words that are pursued and pursued, but the broken love line is still so straightforward. Air-dried years, eternal sorrow, lonely journey, drifting away, blurred my vision. Those dusty things that are not often picked up, long-lost thoughts, stir feelings and sad thoughts in the rain and fog.
"Waiting for 10,000 years is not long, only love can make up for it", which nourishes everything and destroys everything at the same time. In stormy days, laughter is often accompanied by tears. Passers-by who are relentless in the rain at night are convinced that the blooming of fireworks is more lonely than the thin rain. A person walks through a strange street, listens to a strange song, passes by a strange scenery, and passes by strangers mercilessly. Rushing footsteps in the flowing water, he suddenly calmed down and found those lost clouds, which were moved by the beauty that was everywhere but only for a moment. There is always a ray of indifferent vicissitudes in his heart, but his heart is still strong.
Buddha said that it took 500 years to look back on past lives in exchange for passing by in this life. Youth is a book that is too sloppy, but it has been read halfway before it can be read carefully. Time is silently carving our souls. Love and pain slowly sharpen our will, and we will eventually die and grow old in between. The heart yearns for heights, but the feet step into the abyss. If love can be explained and vows can be revised, there will not be so many imperfect entanglements that make people sad.
Youth is a journey of catching up, half happiness and half loneliness. When the wound is no longer stitched, the soul no longer needs comfort, and the loneliness in the middle of the night is often indulged in deep drunkenness. The blooming fireworks are still jubilant, and those confusions tell the good times. For a long time, I often forced myself to forget the sorrow, forgetting the old light and shadow that had never passed away, and forgetting the water that had alienated me. The soul was exiled again and again, trudged in the snow again and again, quietly turned and left the bustling scene, but his eyes were a little blurred. Wandering people will not leave a trace of dust, but they will leave a bright color in their hearts.
Time humbles the promise, and the pen tip swims gently in the wind and rain. When the snowflake finally melts, the waiting will always be cooled by the distance. Snowflakes are beautiful. There are always tears in the memory, and the pulse is endless. They are not in the pure ivory tower, not in the world of dreams and cruelty, and wayward children always stop at the established love. Perhaps the most bitter thing in the world is not to get what you want, but to sigh the reality silently in your heart. We have been experiencing happiness, but we have been complaining. Perhaps this is people's inferiority, always pursuing results, but often trying to understand the process of pursuing and waiting.
The breeze blows through every soft heart, and in the flustered years, flower of life withers day by day, and her eyes are full of fragments. The new soul counts the surge of love, the lonely misty rain is so long, the soul of life locks you in the fleeting time, a tear drifts with the tide, time is bound, lonely thoughts are easily broken, memories turn into acacia tears, and thoughts become habits.